Wild Goose Chase (17 page)

Lights embedded in the carpet led our way down three steps to a flat area in front of the stage. We stopped, facing the red-
velvet tiered seats. My back was to the spot upstage where I’d found Justine’s body. In the back wall, I could see a high window where the sound and light people were housed. The auditorium looked like it was ready for the next keynote speaker, maybe a financial guru: “buy real estate with no money down,” or a spiritual lama, extolling the virtues of compassion. People sat in these seats in the hopes of changing their lives. Tonight, lives had been changed, but not for the better.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the fashion show models scattered in the seats. Contrasted to the blue-suited police that were standing on the periphery, they looked ridiculously overdressed in their wild outfits. From chic to silly was a short distance.

I felt exposed, standing next to Sanchez as if I were some kind of teacher’s pet. I tried to smile at the other women, but no one would catch my eye. Their expressions were uniformly grim. I sensed resentment toward me as though I, as the common denominator between this death and Claire’s, was somehow responsible for the evening’s turn of events.

Sanchez spoke into the silence, his words thick with authority. “Thank you for your cooperation. Please wait here until we call you. Talk to no one. The officers will be taking your statements shortly.”

I looked around the room. Someone, maybe even someone in this room, was killing off people. The only thing that I could see they had in common was quilting. And money.

Sergeant Sanchez turned on his heel, gesturing for me to follow him. As we went through the doorway into the dressing room, I saw Buster. He had his back to us, huddled with a group of patrol officers. His shoulders stiffened as I passed by.

Eve was sitting on a stool in front of the still-lit makeup bar, her face white and crumpled. Her eyes were downcast, focused on the cuticle she was picking at. By some signal I didn’t see, a policewoman joined Sanchez and me.

Sanchez spoke. “Ms. Pellicano, we will need to take that outfit you’re wearing.”

My anger flared. “Again with the clothes?”

Eve glanced up. My outburst didn’t warrant a glance from Buster.

“You know the drill. There may be trace evidence on your skirt,” Sanchez said. “Please allow Officer Hall to accompany you to the rest room. Are your street clothes here somewhere?”

I nodded, reluctantly pointing toward the hook where I’d left them.

The blond officer followed closely as I gathered my clothes and headed for the bathroom. I had to pass through the doorway where Buster stood, the pile of clothes smelling of garlic in my arms. Tears sprang to my eyes as the horrific turn the day had taken hit me anew. A half-sob escaped from my lips. Buster never looked my way, his head bent to a small woman in an outfit made of tulle.

The policewoman held the door open, searching my eyes. I pulled my shoulders back, and sucked in a deep breath.

“This is the second time in two days that my clothes are going to the police,” I said, trying to make a joke. She kept a poker face. I wondered if I could shock her by telling her about the times I’d taken my clothes off voluntarily with Buster.

She told me to keep the stall door open and didn’t look away as I began to undress. I laid the phone on the floor.

I fiercely attacked the buttons on the jacket, suddenly anxious to be free of everything associated with the doomed fashion show. The top button snagged and I tugged at it, nearly breaking the threads that held it on. I handed the officer the jacket. I reached over my head and grasped the zipper on the dress, pulling it part way down. I asked the policewoman to help me with the zipper. As she unzipped me, I let the dress fall to the floor.

She asked for the cell.

I didn’t want to let go of the phone. “Can’t I make some phone calls and let people know where I am?”

She nodded. “One.”

We left the bathroom and stood in the hall outside the dressing room. I could hear murmurs from officers working on the scene. I called Dad’s cell. After two rings, a mechanical voice informed me that customer XJ-70 was not available. Figures. Dad had never wanted the phone in the first place.

Who else could I call? The booth was closed for the night; I didn’t have Ina’s cell number in my phone. Vangie was out of the question; the store would be too busy and her attitude toward the police would not be helpful. I dialed Kevin.

“Punk?”

“Yeah, Kev. It’s me.” I had to talk around the lump in my throat. He hadn’t called me that in a long time. It was a shortened version of Punky Dewster, that had sprung from his little-boy crush on the star, Punky Brewster. I’d gotten the love he felt for her in that nickname. That one word made me realize how much I missed my little brother.

“There’s been another death—at the fashion show. Justine Lanchantin was shot dead.” The words came out, tumbling over each other.

“Slow down, I didn’t understand a word you said.”

I took a breath. I cradled the small phone. This was Kevin. Once upon a time, I could tell him anything. I needed him to be that brother again. I had to take a chance and see if he would step up.

“Justine Lanchantin is dead,” I said.

I heard a whine in the background. “Kevin, come here.”

“Hang on, Kym. She died? Another accident, Dewey?” Kevin sounded incredulous.

“No.” I heard Kym demanding to know who was dead. He repeated what I’d said.

“Dewey, is Ben there?” Kevin asked.

Buster? “He’s here.”

Kevin’s voice was thick with relief. “Good, stick with him. He’ll know what to do. Promise me you’ll stay close to him.”

I thought of Buster’s face, closed off as he pursued his investigation. “Sure, Kev.” There was no point in telling Kevin how it really was between us.

Kym was asking questions. I hung up quickly. It had been a mistake to call him. I thought I would get some strength from him. Instead, I felt completely alone. I handed the phone over to the policewoman and prepared myself to be taken back to the auditorium, girding myself to sit for hours, waiting to be called in and questioned. I sighed with the unfairness of it all.

We stepped back into the dressing room. Sanchez was helping Eve to her feet.

Sanchez crooked his finger at me. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Mission Street. To my office.”

My heart thumped in my chest. “Why do we have to leave? Can’t you just talk to me here?” I protested.

Sanchez’s face was hard as he shook his head. “Two deaths in the last two days. That calls for you and Ms. Stein to come to my office where I can talk to you properly.”

He pointed out the door. My stomach muscles clenched as though protecting themselves from a blow.

“Healy!” Sanchez called. “I’m taking these two ladies to my office. I want to talk to them in relative quiet.”

Buster turned and nodded. I thought his expression was unreadable, then I realized the message was loud and clear: I was on my own.

Eve and I got into Sanchez’s car without exchanging a word. Eve seemed fragile, so unlike the woman I’d seen in action yesterday and today. Her outfit looked like something culled from several of the fashion show items. She wore red pants with a shiny satin stripe down the leg and a black low-cut sweater. We stopped at a light on First. I admired the front yard of a large craftsman-style bungalow on the corner. It was full of wild and unruly plants just like I hoped my lawn would be someday. My heart sunk as we started up again and passed the big sign stuck in the hostas—“Bad Boy Bail Bonds.” Would one of us be needing their services tonight?

I glanced over to see if Eve had noticed, but she was staring out the opposite window, her body crammed against the door as far away from me as she could get. I reached out to her, brushed her arm lightly.

She recoiled. “Leave me alone, Dewey,” Eve said.

Sanchez looked at me in his rearview mirror, frowning. His phone rang and he answered it. A fire truck screamed by, horns blowing as it slewed through the intersection.

I settled back on the seat.

At the police station, Sanchez led us to a large office space with cubicles that reminded me of every high-tech company I’d ever worked in. Standing in the midst of the gray speckled panels and blue computer screens, I had a surreal sense that I belonged here.

Other officers were scattered about the room, talking on the phone, working on the computers. No one looked up as we passed.

“Stay put,” Sanchez said, directing me to a desk in the far corner. “I’m going to seat Ms. Stein in the Witness Interview room. I’ll be right back.”

Eve went off without acknowledging me. I looked around. This office was where Buster came to work each day. I knew immediately which desk was his when I saw the Metallica coffee mug. I averted my eyes, unwilling to look any deeper. The top of Buster’s desk, like the rest of his life, was no business of mine.

Sanchez came back, patting the back of the chair convivially, inviting me to sit. He smiled. Out of the estrogen-laden atmosphere of the quilt show, he seemed able to shed his macho image. The cock-of-the-walk act fell away.

He settled into his chair behind the desk, centering my cell phone in front of him on the bare wood. His shoulders were pulled back, his head held high. I knew a lot of Filipinos who had served in the U.S. military. Sanchez certainly had the bearing.

His sideburns were cut in a straight line across his cheek, longer than what was in style. Not a single hair strayed past the designated line. I wondered what the cost was of always being so vigilant.

Sanchez turned to the desk drawer on his right, pushed a button, and told me he was taping our conversation. He said the date, time, my name, and his. The interrogation started quickly.

“Tell me why the deceased, Ms. Lanchantin, called you.”

“I don’t know.”

“She did call you; it’s in your call logs.”

“I’m not denying that,” I said. “I just never talked to her. She left me a brief message. I assumed it was about the fashion show.”

“Did you return her call?”

He knew I did. That had to be in the logs, too. “I did, but she didn’t answer.”

“Where were you at 3 p.m.?”

He knew exactly where I was. I answered reluctantly. “Having lunch, outside the building.”

“Do you know why Ms. Lanchantin was at the auditorium this afternoon?”

“She was in charge of the fashion show. Rehearsal was at five.” While we were all jammed into the dressing room, fretting over which dress to wear, Justine was laying alone on that stage. I only hoped that she was past our help by that time.

Sanchez pressed on. “Who knew she was going to be there?”

“It seemed like common knowledge.”

“What do you remember seeing when you walked on stage?”

I talked fast, trying to get it over with. “I didn’t see anything at first. I was nearly to the middle of the stage before I saw her body.” I was unable to go on, my voice caught in my throat, feeling like a stone was lodged in my gullet.

“Continue,” he said.

His tone forced me to swallow hard, but I couldn’t finish my answer. He switched his tactics.

“What time did you leave the convention center this afternoon?”

“I guess around two. I wasn’t really looking at the clock.”

“And before that? Where were you?”

I was starting to panic. I was with Buster after two, but if Justine was dead before that, could I account for my time? I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing.

“Do you think she was killed earlier?” I asked.

“Her time of death is still a question.”

His cold tone got to me. Justine had been reduced to a time of death. A victim, a puzzle to be solved. “Do you ever get used to it?” I asked him, a question that started out sarcastic but ended up pleading.

He studied my face for the meaning behind the question. “You’ve had a violent death in your family, correct?” he said.

Hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t want Sanchez to speak about my mother. As awful as Claire and Justine’s deaths were, their murders were tiny tears, little rips compared to the gaping wound left behind by my mother’s accident.

“Audra Pellicano, hit and run last year,” he continued.

Her name on his lips froze me, and I gestured for him to stop, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at a picture on his desk.

“Have you been able to explain to your friends how that changes you?” he asked. “How you feel like a foreigner—no, more like a solo navigator trying to circumvent the globe without a sextant. You must keep moving, but you’re in the dark.”

I could see it was a black-and-white photo of a man and a boy. Sanchez’s face told me this wasn’t going to be a happy tale. I didn’t want to hear it.

“I have nothing more to tell you,” I said. “Let me go home, please.”

He ignored my outburst. “You’re no longer Roy; you’re Roy-whose-dad-was-killed-in-a robbery-at-his-appliance-store. There’s a stigma permanently attached to you.”